


My love is going to be a fist unclenching

by nereid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, It's the mortifying ordeal of being known, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 17:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20029978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nereid/pseuds/nereid
Summary: It’s not a date,technically---"I like the carnations," Aziraphale lifts the bouquet to his nose and inhales. Dark red carnations, deep love and affection.





	My love is going to be a fist unclenching

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Caitlyn Siehl. Dialogue in the first scene stolen from a Broadchurch scene. The whole fic inspired by a Tumblr post, in which Tumblr user curriebelle demanded a Good Omens fic mimicking a scene from Broadchurch. My heart is soft, and I complied.

_My love is going to be a fist unclenching_; Caitlyn Siehl, A List of Facts Dressed up as a Poem

First --

It’s not a date, _technically_, for more reasons than one, the reasons being, in more or less random order, the first one, that no one said out loud that it was a date, and _informed consent_ has been a popular enough concept in Hell (to thwart, if not much else) and Crowley was honestly all in favor of it (just not out loud in the company of Demons -- or Angels other than Aziraphale, for that matter). The second one, that mattered for entirely practical reasons and partially for conceptual ones, was that Aziraphale had also invited Anathema and Newton and Shadwell and Madame Tracy, basically all the adults that had survived the Armageddon-that-wasn’t-really-but-was-apparently-close-enough-to-warrant-some-celebration-of-the-event. 

The list could of course move on further from these two reasons, excellent though they were, taken both together, and separately. For instance, reason number three could be: Aziraphale has not once invited Crowley out on a date, which is a significant enough of an indicator in a human life span, but in 6000 years, it’s safe to consider a pretty good indicator; at least 3 out of 5. At least. Four: the dinner was at Aziraphale’s place, which was cozy enough but Crowley had been there many times now, so the location itself indicated nothing particular about this particular dinner, though the choice of company might have. Crowley’s not really complained aloud at the choice of company - if he had, Aziraphale could as well have told him not to come then, because really, he theoretically could just not come, if he does not want to. Of course it’s only a theoretical possibility, and the fact that he considers Anathema as the only worthy conversationalist there, well, it’s not going to stop him, is it.

The point of all this being, Crowley’s a big lagging on social cues to take here, or even Angelic substitutes for the usual social cues. What to wear, to bring something or not, when to arrive how nervous he really should get beforehand, how nervous to get during, and all that.

All this and some things other things entirely might have something to do with Crowley having already stood for a little over a minute in front of the shop’s door instead of, you know, actually ringing the doorbell.

Seconds go by.

_Alright then._

Crowley rings the bell on the right to the shop’s door. On the surface, meaning in this particular instance, on the level of the world that is decidedly outside of Crowley’s skin and human body, judging by the particular way in which Crowley is acting nervous, messing his hair about, shifting weight from one foot to the other, it’s not easy, from afar or from up close - to tell whether he’s early or late, or one and hoping he was the other, or just itching somewhere. Inside of his own skin, Crowley knows if he could choose, he’d rather be either early or so entirely late that he’s missed the thing entirely, and come to Aziraphale when he’s alone. This also, on some further, deeper level inside Crowley’s skin and body - is decidedly untrue. Aziraphale asked him here, so Aziraphale wants him here, meaning, of course, that Crowley will be here. He’s been here, when here meant ‘where Aziraphale wanted him’ on less ground than Aziraphale verbally inviting him -- French prisons, crucifixions, sacred ground burning his feet --

Aziraphale opens the door.

“Oh, you’re in a suit,” Aziraphale says, in lieu of _hello_. Crowley would have certainly preferred _hello_, there is, after all, something to be said about customary greetings when one is supposed to be in fact - greeting their guests.

It’s moments like this that make Crowley forget why he gave up smoking. If only there was something to do with his hands. So, Crowley’s hands grabs the shawl lapel of his black suit with his left hand. He was sure there was a spot of something there, just need to remove it, is all.

“Is that bad?” Crowley asks, clean of his imaginary spot, in lieu of _hello_, _don’t forget to breath, old boy_, when covering up a millenia-old panic gathering in his nerve-endings already, and always. _It’s just Aziraphale_, he thinks, like that thought’s any help at all. _It’s Aziraphale_.

“No, I didn’t expect it. We didn’t get poshed up,”

_We_, meaning people have already arrived, and Aziraphale sounds almost apologetic, which is nonsense really, nothing to be sorry for, no harm no foul. And what if other people haven’t poshed up for the occasion, it’s not like it’s anything special. Nothing at all. Crowley’s fist clenches harder, though that would have seemed impossible seconds ago Denial, the best and straightforward option. So what if he’s miracled this suit just for this occasion.

“Neither did I.”

There, perfectly convincing. His fist is still clenched around the shopping bag and Crowley’s just spotted Aziraphale looking at it. The bag’s got a nice black-on-white floral pattern, and this is what Aziraphale is observing, definitely. This is a comforting thought to have, but not enough, because Crowley’s fist does not unclench.

“Well, there we are, then. Come in,” Aziraphale says when he finally remembers that he’s the host here, and an Angelic one at that, whatever that means on this post-Armageddon evening. One year. Crowley is sure it feels longer than that, even if it isn’t. Not much to show for it, though. Except - 

“I bought wine,” he says and Aziraphale smiles in turn, moves his arm towards Crowley, probably to accept this wine.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“And flowers,” Crowley continues, probably unstoppable now, damned if you do and damned if you don’t. _Well, what can you do._

“Oh, you didn’t need to…” Aziraphale trails off, gentle eyes, darting between Crowley’s clenched fist and his face.

“And chocolates,” Crowley goes on, might as well finish when he’s started.

“Wow,” Aziraphale exclaims.

“Wasn’t sure which to choose so I got them all,” Crowley motions to his black-on-white bag containing four boxes of chocolates.

“Bless. Come in,” Aziraphale moves to the side, letting Crowley slip inside, finally. 

“Thanks.”

\--- Then dinner ---

Aziraphale goes on as well as he can, having been taken aback a bit by Crowley putting so much effort into this Arma-versary dinner. He straightens his bow tie and closes the front door of the bookshop after he and Crowley have entered. Aziraphale himself also put in effort, but he always likes to put in effort. King James I gave Aziraphale this brooch in the shape of a book. It’s too much, probably, but no one else has dressed up as much as Aziraphale, which makes it nice that Crowley has. Speaking of, Crowley was also around England when James I gave this brooch to Aziraphale. One of them was there to tempt James to take a new lover after Robert Carr, and one of them was there to stop it, but he can’t for the life of him remember who was there to do what. He means to ask Crowley, but it’s too much reminiscing, and he wants to keep to the present now.

“Would you help me, my dear?” he asks Crowley before they reach the group seated in the sitting area, magically transfigured to fit a dinner party better than the usual set-up that fits Aziraphale well when it’s just him, or him and Crowley. There always seems to be room for Crowley.

Crowley sets his bag on the kitchen counter and asks: “Yeah, what do you need, angel?” and Aziraphale points to a vase on the shelf, for the flowers. They’re carnations, dark red. Carnations are first anniversary flowers, and Aziraphale appreciates the symbolism, even if he’s mostly positive Crowley does not care about symbolic meanings of flowers, or symbolic meanings of anything. Or: it’s not so much that he’s positive that Crowley doesn’t care, as much as he knows he really is too invested in one specific outcome (_please, let him care, please_). 

Aziraphale watches Crowley widen his fingers to grasp beige vase, and move to pour water into it. Aziraphale moves to retrieve the carnations from their new position on the counter.

This is just a nice dinner party, is all. It’s all just a few old friends (colleagues? whatever would be the best term for this?) catching up. Other than with Crowley, of course. Aziraphale does not need to catch up with Crowley, he sees Crowley all the time. He saw Crowley yesterday, but that's true for almost all yesterdays nowadays.

"I like the carnations," Aziraphale lifts the bouquet to his nose and inhales. Dark red carnations, deep love and affection.

"And, I like you in a suit," Aziraphale says, into the flowers, for all intents and purposes, and to Crowley's back. For mere seconds, Crowley seems frozen, but then he turns to take the carnations from Aziraphale.

"I hope you ordered the food," Crowley replies, but that's alright. Crowley's not been comfortable with compliments for 6000 years now, and Aziraphale has gotten used to it by now. And if Crowley's fingers brush against Aziraphale in passing, well, that's its own something.

Everyone’s in a good mood at least. From where Aziraphale is sitting it seems even Crowley's being somewhat cooperative, talking to Anathema about the Spanish Inquisition. Crowley seems to ignore some things, though probably only Aziraphale knows him enough to recognize that Crowley's not really paying attention to another one of the accounts of Mr Shadwell and his finger's role in stopping Armageddon, and that he's trying bits of everything but not really eating all that much, and that he's had more wine that a human would be able to partake in and remain functional. It's nice to have everyone here, and perhaps once a year, perhaps even Crowley might be up to it. He knows Crowley does not care much about humans in a particular sense, more about them in a general, Forces of Heaven and Hell vs. Humanity way. Or at least he's not that interested in Shadwell but there's too much disinterest so it spills over. 

Occasionally, though, Aziraphale manages to glance over at Crowley just at the same moment when Crowley is glancing over at Aziraphale, and Crowley smiles his particular smile, and Aziraphale thinks he'd like to take him somewhere, somewhere exciting enough for Crowley and peaceful enough for Aziraphale, somewhere where Crowley could look at more things with this particular smile of his. It would be rude to spend too much time talking just with Crowley, so Aziraphale talks with everyone equally, the best he can manage. Aziraphale holds a toast, because it seems like the occasion calls for it. 

Everyone but Crowley has too many pieces of the chocolate mousse cake and complains about feeling full afterwards. Anathema and Newton are the first to say they should go, it's a workday tomorrow after all, and Shadwell and Madame Tracy agree that it's late enough. Everyone proclaims to have had a great time and expresses their satisfaction once more at having managed to survive Armageddon. Crowley remains seated at the table alone, while Aziraphale is walking everyone out. When he returns, Crowley has not moved. Perhaps there's something on his mind, or perhaps he just wants to spend some more time together.

"You seemed to be getting along alright tonight," Aziraphale says, hopeful for an easy start of a conversation, and to gauge something of Crowley's thoughts.

"Anathema's got some wonderful ideas about plants and gardening."

Aziraphale notes the genuine joy in Crowley's voice and can't help but smile in response.

"Oh, lovely. By the way, did you grow the carnations yourself, or?" 

Crowley says nothing, but Aziraphale sees a fist clenching and unclenching.

"I didn't think you ever grew flowers, that's why I'm asking, that's all,"

"I did. _Erm_, I grew them," Crowley says and gets up to his feet, apparently to start with the clean-up. Aziraphale would say Crowley was not feeling well, except he'd no idea why Crowley would not be feeling well. Perhaps it would do some good to give the boy some space, Aziraphale thinks, and ventures to get his cigarettes in the kitchen. _He grew carnations for me, my dearest boy_. He doesn't smoke often, not really, but he keeps some cigarettes in his kitchen, just in case. He lights one. 

Minutes pass in silence. Crowley is putting away empty food containers, and he's a demon putting away an angel's empty food containers and it seems then as if it really had been worth it, this whole saving the world bit. Aziraphale has to look away, it's easier, he thinks he's going to burst from looking.

\--- And then, well ---

“You brought flowers,” Aziraphale says, back turned to Crowley, which is good from where Crowley’s standing, because otherwise, probably, _he_ would have to turn his own back to Aziraphale. This way, Aziraphale can safely stare out the window, and Crowley can stare at Aziraphale’s back. Works for everyone. Again, perhaps involuntarily, Crowley’s fists clench.

“Thought it would be nice,” Crowley says, feels the word roll over his tongue, heavy with something. Wine, perhaps. It must be all the wine, that's it.

“And flowers, and chocolates,” Aziraphale continues, half-whispers.

“Thought it would be nice,” Crowley continues and has enough time to wonder if he’s stuck in some sort of loop now and if _thought it would be nice_ is what he’ll be stuck repeating for eternity, though it’s better, perhaps, than some alternatives -

“I’ve never been given flowers,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley thinks he hears such honesty and longing in his voice his heart's going to break. Is it possible he's never given him flowers? Surely, Crowley would remember, even if Aziraphale didn't, so, no then.

“I thought carnations would be nice, first anniversary flower and all that,” Crowley continues, nails digging into the skin of his palm, just enough, not to pierce through, but enough to feel them, enough to ground.

“First anniversary?” Aziraphale asks, voice high-pitched, frolicking in satisfied surprise, which is perhaps why what Crowley says next is - 

“There’s nothing for the 6 millenia-versary, don’t bloody live long enough to need it, do they,” and then Crowley bites his tongue, and Aziraphale -- well, continues to stand, back straight. So many wrong things here, dangerous implications, hearts awaiting with figurative open palms, _I am here, I have always been here_. Crowley walks over to Aziraphale, and stands to his left, and also looks outside the window with him. It’s a view, all in all, not as impressive as it could be, street lamps in the otherwise dark area, and cars going less than the speed limit, fools, everyone. Too slow, too fast, never can get it right, people.

Aziraphale extends his hand towards Crowley, and Crowley’s fingers brush against Aziraphale when he takes the offered cigarette. Crowley’s hands are open, waiting, _here_.

“I might be getting too romantic in my old age,” Crowley says - apology for past transgressions, denial of earth-old truths, negotiation for some victory, a confession. So soft, this love. Speak too loud and you'll scare it away and it'll go away for half a century. This time Aziraphale doesn't say _You go too fast for me_, he says nothing instead, and the softness does not make a strategic retreat from Crowley's eyes.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder, and when Crowley has just enough time to think _Oh_ and _That’s new_, enough time to think He's so warm, and when he expects Aziraphale to pull away, what happens is, Aziraphale does not. He removes his lips from Crowley's shoulder, but rotates his head so it now rests on Crowley's shoulder. _So soft, this love_.

"You've always been romantic, dear."

_So soft._

"If you say so, angel."


End file.
